


Dust to Gold

by Corrosion



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Autistic Character, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Not Beta Read, Purple Prose, Unreliable Narrator, psychotic character, the fic in which I shove some of my problems onto genesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:43:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6322648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corrosion/pseuds/Corrosion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thinking in black and white, Genesis was never/always right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust to Gold

Genesis had always been a good child. He never teased, never shouted, never even gave a hint to wanting something other than what his parents desired. Genesis had always been a bad child. He never told the truth, never followed the rules, never met expectations. If asked what he desired most, it would be his parents’ happiness. They cared so much about him, didn’t they? They gave him toys and treats. 

 

It was true that they brought him to parties and galas that he had no wish to be at, his _temper tantrums_ certainly evidence enough of that, but wasn’t that for his enjoyment too? They even told their friends of his achievements and awards, nevermind that they ignored his demands to _‘please can we go home, please’._ His parents’ acting was so much better than his: they could pretend that loose clothes didn’t hurt; that sounds weren’t bright or colorful; that, no, the vegetables weren’t spicy, what in the Goddess’s name are you talking about? 

 

Angeal was a blessing. He, too, could taste sights, could recite from heart what someone had said two days ago, could repeat phrases again and again and again. Genesis knew the last one was definitely “baby behavior,” and he wasn’t a baby anymore, so he tried to stop it. He succeeded only in adopting words others had said to stand-in for what he could not say, for the words he did not have. His mind had the images and feelings, yes, but his mouth could not move except for _;’no, no, no, no!’_

 

A few words in private was nothing when others slapped their kids in public, Genesis knew. They didn’t leave bruises, but he could not help but feel them over and over in his mind, pressing upon them until they bled. So what if he couldn’t say what he wanted, what he needed to, around them? They were happy, so he was happy; they were sad, so he was sad; they were angry, so he was scared, and that was just how it went. 

 

Genesis couldn’t stop lying--his parents said so. They told the truth, and he told lies. Even when he thought he was right, he was wrong: his memory was just that faulty. No, they had not said that they wished they had never adopted him, he was just making that up to be dramatic and didn’t he care about how his parents felt when he lied?  

 

Thinking in black and white, Genesis was never/always right. He was never right in killing, but always right when he fought for ShinRa. He could do nothing right, but nothing wrong. Bouncing between ideals, he trusted only in the perception of others; surely, people who had more of a personality than a wish could make better decisions than he. 

 

ShinRa made him certain that nothing he thought was right--they assured him that a burnt town could be rebuilt to its original glory, even if its people had perished. So he burned people and towns. Everyone who mattered was pleased when he did that, and he rose through the ranks fast enough that it might be enough to satisfy him. Not so. Sephiroth was always two steps ahead of him in everything that mattered.

 

In small, meaningless things Genesis would win, after an intentional set-up. He turned it over in his mind later and worried that Sephiroth would wish to never be his friend again, but it seemed that it simply was not a big of a deal to Sephiroth as it was to him. 

 

The jealousy did not bloom overnight; a seed had been planted when he first met the silver-haired man, but it did not germinate until he witnessed Sephiroth being praised. That was what he was after--it didn’t matter what or even who he had to sacrifice to gain that admiration. Slowly, the vine of envy wrapped itself around his heart; no longer did he care for his once-friend, but only for himself to not feel as if nothing he did could exist. It did not matter that he had accomplished so much--nothing was anything until it was the utmost and Sephiroth, in Genesis’s eyes, had everything. His parent’s attention, the attention of the media, the adoration of the crowds, and he didn’t even want it. How ungrateful! 

The voices came and went. Genesis could not quite understand the expression “voices in my head,” as the voices were quite clearly not in his head, despite how he could not block them out by covering his ears. Each day he woke up covered in bugs, and each day he went to sleep covered in bugs. He could never be clean because all the evil in the world was because of him, wasn’t it? Everyone’s laughs were because of him and he deserved it.   

 

Clarity came in the form of LOVELESS--how could his Goddess be wrong? Hollander offered a way, and he brought his power to the table. The conversion of his men to monsters was not his intention, but Hollander assured him that he had agreed to it, and, indeed, he found that he had. It was easier to pretend that Hollander’s wishes that Hojo be dethroned were his, even if he somehow knew that his salvation lay not in the scientist, but in death. 

 

The voices shut up. The insects flew away. No one was mad at him for anything. 

 

Sephiroth, the greatest monster, was so lucky, Genesis believed. It was only on the inside that he was a monster, after all. He had no wing, no cracking face, no wounds that would not close. Genesis decided that if Angeal was win against the monster, then Sephiroth must as well. He himself would get around to it later. 

 

Genesis had found utter peace in knowing that Zack would exterminate this last monster, in surrendering his life to the true hero--what he found, though, was his call for mercy unheeded. He would not die that day. His brothers and sisters in DeepGround welcomed him with open arms. So did Hojo and his experiments. 

 

Once sealed away in that cave, healing, he contacted the Goddess. Her previous image had been false, a trick of the mind, but her rejection had been real. Later, he would find her true form intangible, the will of the Planet. 

 

The voices screamed at him. He screamed back, until his voice grew hoarse. He dug his nails into his arms, raking down the vulnerable flesh on the inside. The field of wildflowers turned red, and the petals dripped with the blood of those he had killed. He knew this to be true, even if their dryness crinkled beneath his palms. In a world both crimson and sepia, he cried. 

 

Genesis came to, later, when the voices had decided to recede, if only temporarily. Nothing was real, he knew, and continued to walk. The voices, now, were whispers that promised to take him to Hell. He agreed that that was where he belonged, and continued to walk. He began to talk back to the voices, telling them that he’d get around to it eventually, and continued to walk. The people of Edge were wary of him, rightfully so, but he knew that they were the future of this planet, and so stopped. 

  
Now, he existed in a world of grays, so unlike the stark world of before, where things were one or another; now, they were one and another. Now, the voices, too, began to gentle, to tell jokes, a constant presence that would not, could not, abandon him. Now, words were needed, but, now, silence was needed.


End file.
